


Rivers

by chronicle23



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chronicle23/pseuds/chronicle23
Summary: People collide. Things happen. It can't be controlled.Examining Jeff and Britta sneaking around for the better part of a year. Set during S2.
Relationships: Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 21
Kudos: 58





	Rivers

**Author's Note:**

> _Thinks of a post I recently saw on Tumblr:_
> 
> me @ myself @ 18: you need to get over Jeff and Britta  
> me @ myself @ 26: you need to get over Jeff and Britta

**It starts like this:**

They both agree a drink is in order and end up huddled over their drinks together that night, him a scotch and her a standard vodka neat, four olives. Jeff’s nose is shades of mottled purple, ugly and bruised.

“I would argue that might be the most ridiculous thing that’s happened in that room so far,” Jeff says.

“Second most ridiculous, probably,” Britta offers.

“What’s the first?”

“Me sleeping with you.”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad. You seemed pretty into it,” he says with a sly grin.

“Maybe,” she says, looking him square in the eye. She’s two drinks in and feeling brazen. “But that was before you walked out on me and almost took Annie to second base.”

“Oh, come on. I think we beat that horse to death today.”

Britta crosses her arms and glares at him. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be so smart, you’re actually pretty dumb.” She gathers up her purse and throws down a crumpled $10 bill, sliding off the stool. “See you around.”

“Britta,” Jeff calls after her. He sighs and runs his hands over his face. Setting down a few bills for his own drink, he turns to catch her just as she walks out the door. “Wait. Stop.”

She turns around to face him, crossing her arms again. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”

“I know. I’m sorry, okay? I screwed up.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m really sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you. I just want… I want us to be friends again. No more stupid competitions.”

Britta looks at him for what feels like eons. “Is that really what you want?” she asks in a quiet voice.

Jeff’s getting nervous because truthfully, no, that is not at all what he wants, and what he really wants to do is take her to that dinner that never happened. But it’s way too late to say that now. He should’ve said it months ago. So he says this instead: “No. Let’s be more than friends. Let’s be friends with benefits.”

She considers it. She should say something like, _fine, but you’re not allowed to fall in love with me._ But she can’t because she already sunk that ship. This is a horrible idea.

“Okay.”

They take a cab back to his place. The second time is different than the first. It’s quieter, there’s no paintball guns, they’re in a bed. It’s slower and a little awkward (Jeff's nose is busted). It’s scarier.

* * *

**It continues like this:**

“Gwynnifer? Really? You’re gonna blow our cover,” Britta says through her last mouthful of spring roll.

“Me? How about you?” Jeff scoffs, his feet up on the coffee table. “This Gwynnifer must be real special. Don’t you usually wear the stripey turquoise Beetlejuice numbers?” he mocks in a high-pitched voice. "That's you. Abed definitely made note of that."

“Oh, yeah. My bad.”

Jeff looks over at her, and thinks he’s walking on thin ice. Not because things are bad. They’re doomed. He has spent every single weekend of the past month with Britta. A handful of mixed in weeknights, too. Anyone with a shred of intelligence would have stopped calling this friends with benefits probably by the fourth time. That’s when he started spending the night. And they started doing other things. Like going out for pizza. Driving two towns over to see a movie. Staying up until 1:00 in the morning. _Talking._

“So what do you want to do?” she asks him. It’s only 8:00. They just ate.  
  
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“I asked you first,” she says, poking him with her foot. Her hair sits on top of her head in a bun. She’s wearing some kind of vintage Cosby sweater and cat socks and her ridiculous hipster glasses. Jeff has seen her in approximately three outfits: her standard leather jacket, a cocktail dress, and nothing. But never this; domestic Britta is doing weird things to him.

“You’re so annoying,” he says, grabbing her ankle.

20 minutes later, they’re halfway through a game of Scrabble. Jeff calls her a grandma for even owning the game. Britta calls him a sore loser, because she’s taken up the lead.

“This is a stupid game,” Jeff says as he’s down 40 points and she secures her win with the word _foxy._

“Yeah, if you suck at it,” she laughs.

“Rematch. Let’s make it more interesting.”

“You’re gonna start playing better?”

“Nope. Strip Scrabble.”

She wins with the word _quixotic_ wearing nothing but her glasses.

* * *

**And like this:**

Christmas Eve is a quiet affair. Britta takes Jeff up on his holiday benefits offer. She wakes up in his bed on Christmas morning, swimming in a cocoon of 600-thread count sheets. She’s got nowhere to be. She doesn’t talk to her parents and her brothers live on opposite coasts.

It’s steel gray outside. It looks like it might snow. Britta feels empty. She isn’t much of a Christmas person, but spending the holiday alone is just a guaranteed way to make it feel like any other day.

Jeff stirs beside her.

“Morning,” he muffles from his pillow.

“Hey. Merry Christmas.”

“Oh. Right. You too,” he says, turning to face her.

“I’ll head home soon,” she says, running her foot over his leg. “You must have somewhere to be later?”

“Just my mom’s. So she can harass me about lying to her for the past two years.”

Britta smiles. Their faces are inches apart. “You must’ve broke her heart. Her perfect son, the liar.”

“It wasn’t great. I haven’t seen her since she found out.”

“I hope you got her a nice present.”

“Nothing fancy. Hey… you should come with me.”

Britta tries to hide the surprise on her face. As much as she would like to meet the woman that spawned Jeff Winger, they aren’t a couple. They’re just friends who sleep together almost every night and text each other every minute they aren’t together.

“As what? Your… guest?”

“No, you goon. As my girlfriend. She’ll be much happier if she thinks I’m in a relationship.”

“So, let me just wrap my head around this really quick. You want to patch up one lie to your mom with a newer, fresher lie?”

Jeff makes a face that she can’t read. The world _girlfriend_ is still swirling around in the air. “Well.. yes. But also no? What would you call this?”

“Friends with benefits?”

“More than that, I think. But without the relationship-y labels and drama. Just, you know. People collide. Things happen. It can’t be controlled.”

Britta thinks for a minute, ignoring his quote. By all accounts, they are in this thing. In deep. It’s way more than she wants to admit and would bet her measly savings account he feels the same. Once it has a label and expectations and people know, it’s the real deal. People get spooked. Things get messy. Friendships end. She’s not interested in any of that happening yet, though it’s visible on the horizon—faint storm clouds.

“You’re my… something.”

Jeff grins, pulling her close. “I like that. So you’ll come? As my something?”

“Only if you promise to use that word in front of your mom,” she says into his ear.

He doesn’t. He panics and calls her his girlfriend. His mom doesn’t bring up the lawyer thing once. She shows Britta an album of baby pictures. They drink eggnog and there’s a fire going. She feels as warm as the embers, catching herself looking at the way the flames dance on Jeff’s face for a moment too long. It snows on the way home and she’s glad for something cold.

* * *

**And this:**

Britta stuffs solo cups into a garbage bag. Jeff sweeps glass and crumbs into the dustpan. His apartment looks like a frat house. Chang snores on the couch, oblivious to the cleanup effort happening around him.

When the floor is free of glass and tripping hazards, they migrate to the bedroom, grabbing water and wine from the kitchen so they won’t have to come back out to the bizarre houseguest. Britta goes to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth one more time; she’s still feeling a little disgusted with herself after the Paige thing.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jeff says when she comes back, a single rose and a small box of chocolates resting on her side of the bed. Her side.

Britta gets _that_ feeling, the one she’s been having a lot lately. That sneaky, enveloping feeling that she might actually have real feelings for Jeff Winger and that she’s in way over her head. This is not a serious relationship; this is a collection of somethings. She told him once and she’s not telling him again. Also, it won’t work. This thing can only survive in secrecy, in abandoned supply closets, in leather backseats, at 24-hour diners two towns away. Only under the guise that it’s nothing, it’s casual, it’s not exclusive.

Jeff watches her, watching him, wrestling the same feelings. This thing has gotten way too big. He shouldn’t have bought her anything. But how could he not? She’s here all the time. It’s Valentine’s Day. That’s what people do. People collide, things happen. It can’t be controlled.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Britta finally says, climbing into bed and moving her gifts aside. “Thank you.” She gives him a quick kiss.

Neither of them knows what to say, because there’s absolutely nothing wrong. But somehow, everything’s wrong. It’s just them, their feelings, and some chocolate. They’ve done a lot of things with each other over the past 6 months, but feelings isn’t one of them, so they get drunk off wine and eat a couple pieces of chocolate off each other. They’re both too tired to do anything else and Jeff falls asleep with his face in Britta’s hair and he knows he’s screwed.

* * *

**It ~~ends~~ pauses like this:**

“It’s not you, it’s-”

“It’s you,” Britta cuts him off. She leaves before he can get a good look at her face. She drives around for awhile. She stops at home to feed the cat and decides she can’t be home alone. Not with little reminders of Jeff everywhere – a sweater on the coatrack, a toothbrush in the bathroom, egg whites in the fridge. So she ends up at the Red Door.

But of course, Jeff’s already there, ushered out of his own apartment by the cat mug on the counter and soft blonde hairs on the bedspread.

“Hey,” she says, sitting on the stool next to him.

“Hey.”

“And so it ends. The greatest… sexscapade in history,” Britta jokes, desperate to kill this elephant in the room.

“Cheers to that,” he says. Their glasses clink together. “So, are you gonna miss me?”

“Depends. Will you miss me?”

“I asked you first.”

Britta wants to say: _Yes. Tell me you don't want to call it off._ But she doesn’t. So she says, “It’ll be hard to miss you when I still see your obnoxious self almost every day. You’ll miss me more.”

Jeff can’t argue with that. How could you not miss dating your best friend? He doesn’t know what he’ll miss most. The sex, yeah. But also, the way she looks in the morning. Her ridiculous sense of humor and biting sarcasm and the sound of her laugh. The way she talks to him late at night when there’s no one else around and her guard is down. He wants to say: _I already miss you._ But he doesn’t. So he leans over to kiss her, slow at first, then hungrily.

The last time is the last time for a long time. Britta lies awake late into the night, looking at his walls, trying to remember every little nick. His breath is on her neck. She thinks love must be like a river. You can dam it up, you can re-chart its course, but you can never really stop it from flowing to where it wants to go.


End file.
